Attempts at Normality
by eviemacready
Summary: Sherlock decides to return to Baker Street after a tragic incident leaves John in a coma. But in the three years he's been away, a lot has changed.
1. Chapter 1

_"This phone call, it's… It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_"Leave a note when?"_

_"Goodbye, John."_

_"No, don't-"_

"…For god's sake, Sherlock, are you even bloody listening to me?"

The memory dissolved rapidly, and Sherlock's surroundings snapped back into focus with a speed which caused him to jump slightly as if he'd been caught misbehaving. He flicked his gaze back up to meet Mycroft's, raising his eyebrows apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. My thoughts were… Elsewhere."

"Yes, I gathered." Mycroft leant back in his chair and began to swill his remaining scotch in its tumbler absently. Whatever he had been talking about before, Sherlock didn't know, but it seemed to have been momentarily forgotten about. The younger Holmes shifted and drained his own glass, setting it down on the elaborately carved coffee table between them.

After a short pause, Mycroft cleared his throat. "What were you thinking about?"

"It's been three years." Sherlock replied quietly. He turned his face away from his brother's and instead began to study the room's wallpaper with apparent sudden interest. "Three years today."

Mycroft nodded understandingly, but didn't speak. He cocked his head to one side and watched Sherlock with curiosity as he avoided his gaze. Sherlock wasn't usually one for being shy. He'd always spoken his mind, and not bothered thinking about the reactions it would have on others. _Then again, sentiment does funny things to people…_

"You miss him." It wasn't a question.

Suddenly the detective turned back, leaning forwards so as to close the distance between them.

"I want to go back. To Baker Street." His voice sounded vaguely choked, although Mycroft chose to ignore that. He instead sighed, and reached down beside his chair to lift his plain black briefcase onto his lap.

"Yes… I thought you might." He murmured as he cracked open the case. From it he produced a blank envelope, which he passed to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it for a few seconds, a quizzical look settling itself on his face, before tearing it open. He pulled out the ticket from inside and frowned.

"I came prepared for you to want to return on the anniversary of the... Fall." Mycroft explained, on realising that Sherlock didn't understand his intentions. "The ferry leaves from Calais in two hours."

Sherlock blinked, taking in what Mycroft had just said. He stared at the ticket in disbelief, confirming that it was, indeed, dated for that day. _How could he have known?_

"You mean… I can just _go back?" _The words he had been holding back, which he hadn't dared say or even let himself _think _for three years, slipped from his lips, almost a whisper. They sounded almost too good to be true. The ticket seemed as if it would disappear from his hands if he looked away for only a second, and he would wake up to just another day of being in hiding.

"Yes, if you think that's the right thing to do."

Sherlock scowled. "You don't think John will want me back."

"It's not just that, Sherlock. Remember that I had all surveillance of Doctor Watson cut off, by your request, the day you left. He may have moved on, gone away, might not even be living at 221B anymore..." Sherlock began to say something in retaliation, but Mycroft held up a hand and continued. "… He's had his own life without you, Sherlock. A life which you're no longer a part of. You just need to be prepared to accept that, if faced with disappointment."

Sherlock watched as Mycroft nodded once after this speech, gathered up his briefcase and umbrella, and rose from his armchair.

"A car will arrive for you in half an hour. Good luck, Sherlock." He gave a small smile, and without another word, turned and left Sherlock alone.

In the silence that followed, Sherlock didn't move. He sat and stared at the ticket, only finally looking away when he felt a strange warm wetness on his cheek. Brushing a hand over his face, he realised to his astonishment that he had been crying, and stubbornly wiped the fresh tears away. He pulled his wallet out from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it, sliding the paper inside, hesitating slightly before taking out a small photo and stowing the wallet back away.

The photograph was tattered around the edges, worn from being slipped in and out of its holder countless amounts of times over the three years. It was a fairly standard picture in itself; just himself and John smiling together outside 221B when they'd first moved in, taken by Mrs Hudson with her unsteady hand. However the sight of it always made a sort of warmth spread inside Sherlock as he remembered those times, coupled with a strange longing to return. And now he could. He touched the image of John's face gently and sighed.

"I'm coming home." Sherlock murmured. "Please be there."

xXx

Mary twisted her wrist around to check her watch again, and sighed when she read the time. _He's not usually this late home… _She frowned, moving her attention to her phone, which was balanced on top of a pile of new baby clothes nearby. No new messages, no missed calls.

"Everything alright, love?" Molly was watching her with concern over the top of a large mug of tea from the sofa opposite, surrounded by tiny, neatly-folded onesies. Mary nodded tightly and gave a weak smile.

"Yeah. John's a little late home, that's all." She shrugged, and her friend furrowed her brow.

"Is he alright?" Molly asked, "Have you heard from him?"

"No, I haven't, but… I'm sure he's fine. Knowing him, he's probably gone down to the pub with Greg and forgotten to take his phone off silent. He does that." Mary wasn't entirely sure whether she was trying to reassure herself or Molly, but as she said these words some of her panic subsided and she broke into a wide grin. _Of course he's gone out with Greg. He will have just forgotten to tell me, that's all. He's fine._

Molly seemed happy with that explanation too, and she smiled back. "Oh. Okay." She said quietly, and returned to sorting the baby clothes. Mary watched Molly busying herself for a few moments, stroking her baby bump absently. She felt like she ought to be helping, since the little pathologist was being so generous, but at this stage every movement made her feel like she was going to burst.

"You didn't have to bring all this stuff for me." She told Molly, who blushed and bowed her head gladly.

"It was nothing. What are friends for, eh?"

Suddenly the calm atmosphere was broken by the house phone's loud ringing from the kitchen. Mary groaned. The phone always seemed to ring just when she's gotten herself in a comfortable position. She began to push herself up laboriously from the sofa, but Molly stopped her.

"I'll go." She offered, and padded away to the kitchen. Mary smiled gratefully and settled back down, picking up the TV remote and flicking it on. The news blared out- a story that she wasn't really interested in, but that blocked out the sound of Molly's phone answering until she returned. She held the receiver out to Mary, a mildly worried expression now settled back onto her face.

"It's Greg." She mouthed. Mary's frown returned as she took it.

"Hey Greg, what's up?"

From the other end of the line, Lestrade's voice sounded weak. "Mary, I'm… I'm afraid I've got to give you some bad news…"

xXx

Sherlock had never really liked boats. He generally tried to avoid using them as a form of transport, where possible, as the rolling-on-the-waves movement tended to make him feel very queasy. However, he allowed himself to be chauffeured straight onto the huge ferry without thinking too much about it.

Once on-board, he was ushered to a private suite, the kind most people didn't even realise you could get on a standard ferry. Mycroft must have put in some special requests for him. It was a fairly basic room, containing a single bed, a desk and chair, and a comfortable-looking armchair which faced a wall-hanging TV. In the corner, a plain door led through to an en-suite shower room, and there were no windows, presumably because it was in the centre of the boat, but Sherlock didn't mind particularly. He was mainly just relieved to be away from the godforsaken house he'd been staying in, secretly, for three years, and on his way back to London and John.

_John._

Sherlock smiled at the thought of the name. Soon he'd be reunited with his doctor, and they could continue life just as before. At least, he hoped that was how it would work out. He entered the room quietly and closed the door behind him, before heaving his suitcase onto the bed and sinking into the armchair. He pushed a button on a nearby remote and the television flickered into life.

The news was on, halfway through a story. Pretty boring and standard, in Sherlock's eyes, so he reached to turn it over to something more exciting.

_"…The victim, John Watson, is reported to still be in a coma after suffering traumatic bullet wounds to the head…"_

Sherlock froze, the colour rushing from his face as he snapped his head up towards the screen. His eyes widened in horror as he was faced with a full-screen image of John, _his John, _accompanying the news report. The caption underneath the photo made his stomach lurch, and he leapt from the chair to grab the remote, which he had knocked to the floor, in order to pause the programme. The words burned out at him, searing onto his mind like they were being branded there.

**MAN SHOT ON BAKER STREET SERIOUSLY WOUNDED.**

"No. No, no, no." Sherlock fumbled with the machine, hoping desperately to find a rewind. He located it, and pushed it violently, playing the news story from the beginning of the report.

_"A man shot today by an unknown attacker on his way home to Baker Street has been seriously injured, say police reports. The victim, John Watson, is reported to still be in a coma after suffering traumatic bullet wounds to the head and torso on his way home from work at the local GP surgery early this evening. His family and friends have been informed, and are hoping for a rapid recovery._

_"The shooter in question is believed to be still at large in London city centre, although nobody has reported seeing the incident. The police are looking into it, but so far nobody has been named as suspect."_

The report ended, but Sherlock continued to stare at the screen numbly, unseeing. He became aware that he was clutching the remote in his hand so hard that it was hurting, and so dropped it to the floor, where it landed with a soft _thud_ on the thin carpet and switched the TV off. His arm swung limply to his side.

He stood stock-still, his mind replaying the story over and over again until he felt sick and the words blurred together in his head until they were completely incomprehensible. His thoughts reeled, working overtime. _He had to get off the boat. John was in trouble. He had to get to him quicker._ Still in a state of blank shock, Sherlock whipped his mobile from his back pocket and sent a hasty text.

_Mycroft. I have to get to London quicker. It's urgent. Please. –SH_

Mycroft's reply came almost immediately.

_I presume you saw the news article? –MH_

_Just send something faster. –SH_

The ferry didn't feel like it was moving yet, so Sherlock presumed it was still sitting in the dock. He hastily grabbed his bag back off the bed and started for the door.

People were shooting him confused sideways glances from all sides as he sprinted back down the long corridors towards the entrance to the boat. He could faintly hear guards calling at him to return to the main area, but he ignored them and pressed forwards, desperate to get outside before it started moving. The foghorn blared out, and he saw the gates begin to close ahead.

"Wait!" He shouted. The two men operating the door turned to face him, frowning. "Wait, I need to get off the boat."

The taller of the two spoke, his voice gruff and agitated. "I'm afraid we're already leaving port. You can't get off."

"Please. It's urgent. My friend, he's ..." Realising they weren't about to budge, Sherlock trailed off. He took a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for what he was about to do, and then ran. Before the guards could react, he had leapt through the opening and dove straight into the cold water.

A helicopter was waiting nearby when he had dragged himself ashore and wrung out his clothes. He didn't know how long it had been there for, but mentally commended Mycroft on his punctuality. He jumped in, aided by the pilot, who he'd met before on several occasions when the older Holmes had fancied showing off his ease of access to whatever mode of transport he wanted.

Sherlock didn't need to say where he was headed to. They lifted into the air with barely a second's hesitation, and sped off towards St Bart's.


	2. Chapter 2

The helipad behind St Bart's hospital was usually reserved for air ambulances, but it was thankfully clear when Sherlock arrived, and so the helicopter was lowered to the ground without any trouble. No doubt he could get Mycroft to give an explanation if anyone came along and complained, anyway. The consulting detective leapt from the vehicle before the blades had even finished spinning and swept around to the main entrance, calling a vague thank-you back to his chauffeur. He didn't have time to waste with particular politeness.

There was nobody else at reception apart from the woman behind the desk, who looked up from her magazine in alarm as Sherlock rushed inside. Obviously it had been a slow day.

"Can I help you?" The woman looked up at Sherlock with slight concern as he leant forwards onto the desk.

"I need to see John."

She frowned and turned to her computer. "There are a lot of Johns in here. Give me a clue."

"John Watson." Sherlock said, more clearly as he got his breath back. He straightened up, eyeing the corridor to his left, searching for a sign that would lead him to his friend. Seeing none, he fixed his attention back on the receptionist impatiently and waited in silence as she tapped John's name into the files.

"Ah. Yes." She glanced at Sherlock briefly, an almost pitying look, before reaching for the desk phone. She spoke into it quietly.

"Hey, this is reception. I've got another visitor for John Watson, is it alright to send him up?" A pause while whoever was at the other end of the line spoke. "Uh-huh. Yeah, it's…"

"Mycroft Holmes. John's… Friend." Sherlock told her before she could ask. The name spilled from his tongue naturally after so long of using it as his own.

"… It's a family friend." The receptionist relayed. After another brief pause she then put the phone back in its holder and pointed down the corridor.

"Down there until you see the sign to the head trauma ward, and then follow that." She instructed, and Sherlock thanked her and set off in the direction that she had indicated.

It didn't take him long to find the right room- a small private suite attached to the main ward had a sign hung on the door announcing that it was occupied by J. Watson, and he stopped outside it nervously. Now he was there, so close to the man he'd left three years ago, Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to see him. Not in this state, anyway. He wasn't sure he was entirely strong enough to-

"Are you here to visit Dr Watson?" A man's voice close by interrupted Sherlock's spinning thoughts. He looked up to meet the gaze of a hospital doctor, who was staring kindly at him from the doorway of John's room. The name badge pinned onto his spotless white jacket informed Sherlock that his name was Doctor Howard. He swallowed thickly.

"Yes, I am."

Dr Howard nodded sympathetically and gestured towards the suite behind him. "It's a nice little room he's in. He was originally in the main ward, but we had a special anonymous request to move him here…" He trailed off upon realising that Sherlock wasn't actually listening to what he was saying. He stepped aside to allow the detective access to the doorway. Sherlock breathed out heavily and took a step forwards, reaching out to turn the handle.

"Just be warned," Dr Howard told him, his voice soft. "John's looking extremely worse for wear. I don't want you going in with the hopes of a nice chat, because right now you won't be getting one."

Sherlock nodded tensely. "I understand." He muttered, and entered the room.

It was relatively dark in the suite, as outside the sun was just setting and the glaringly bright hospital lights inside hadn't yet been turned on. The only artificial light in the room was glowing from the handful of whirring machines surrounding the bed under the window. By the side of the bed there was also a small table, which was covered entirely with cards, flowers and get-well gifts from friends and family._ Not that they would do any good._ He thought bitterly. _What's the point of giving cards to a man unable to read them?_ Sherlock began to approach the bed tentatively, peering over the top to catch a glimpse of John. The sight made his heart clench in an uncomfortable way that he hadn't experienced before.

John was unconscious, as was expected, lying on his back in the middle of the bed. He was breathing deeply, and it knocked Sherlock off-guard to see him so at peace. If it wasn't for the bloodied bandages tied thickly around his head, or the thin tube that led from his hand to a drip nearby, or the steady beeping of the heart monitor… The ex-army doctor could almost be taking a nice nap in his own bed. Sherlock stopped momentarily in the middle of the room, watching John's chest rising and falling. He couldn't quite believe that he was right _there_. In front of him.

After so long. It was such a shame that their reunion was like this.

He closed the distance between himself and John's bed slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the man's face in case he somehow vanished. When he reached the bedside, Sherlock sat down gently on a nearby chair and rested his head in his hands, still gazing at his injured friend. The beginnings of fresh tears stung his eyes and he blinked angrily before clearing his throat and checking the door to the room was properly closed.

"Hello again, John." It startled him to hear his own voice so cracked and uncertain. He closed his eyes against the second onset of tears. "I'm sorry that I've come back to you at such a… Inconvenient time, but I thought it was a necessary visit."

Sherlock leant forwards then and took one of John's limp hands in his own. He felt vaguely foolish doing so, but he needed the contact; he needed to feel the warmth of John's skin, just to convince himself that he was really there in front of him. An embarrassingly sentimental gesture, but it calmed him nonetheless.

"John, when you were at… At my grave… You made a wonderful little speech to me. I can remember it all so clearly, everything you said, and I've been thinking it over and over since I left and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for ever going away from you but I just… It was what was best and I hope that one day you will forgive me. I don't expect you to right away, of course, although that would be brilliant, but what I did to you was… Well, unspeakable.

"I think I said once, a long while ago, that I'd be lost without my blogger. And that's what I have been for three years, John. Lost. There have been days when I just haven't known what to do with myself because everything I want to do involves you in some way. I never really realised how big a part of my life you had become until you were out of it again. I'd like to think you felt the same way about me, but on the other hand I suspect you moved on long ago. You've probably got a completely new life. New friends. A new job, perhaps. I fear I've missed too much to ever catch up with you again, or become as close to you as before."

Sherlock hadn't realised he had been crying freely until a warm droplet dripped from the end of his nose onto his hand, which he raised to wipe at his damp cheeks. He took a deep, calming breath before continuing.

"There's something you said to me exactly three years ago, actually, but it's relevant so I'm going to say it again; _I was so alone, and I owe you so much. _I think you may be the first person in my life who genuinely _means _something to me, John, and I thank you. And I'm aware you can't hear me, but I'm going to ask something of you now, and I hope it by some means gets through to you. Stay alive, John Hamish Watson. For me."

Sherlock fell silent after this, once again simply watching John as he slept. He sat for a few minutes longer before reluctantly getting up from his chair and gently replacing his friend's hand by his side.

"I'll come back soon." He promised, and pulled the keys to 221B from an inner pocket of his coat. He'd kept them safe the entire time, of course he had. As he was turning to leave, the consulting detective became aware of heavy footsteps approaching the room._ Female, by the sound of it, but wearing flat shoes. Carrying something heavy. _The first part of this deduction was confirmed as a conversation struck up directly outside, from which Sherlock could clearly make out the voices of Dr Howard and a young woman. He froze, listening.

_"- in exactly the same shape as yesterday, I'm afraid."_

_"There's been no signs of recovery? No hints that he's coming round at all?"_

_"Unfortunately not. But we are keeping a close watch of Dr Watson in case he makes any… Improvements."_

_"And I'm alright to visit him again now?"_

_"Go right ahead."_

There was a soft _click_ as the door handle was turned. Sherlock stayed completely still as it swung open, heavily curious as to the identity of this woman that was visiting his John. It wasn't Sarah, he could tell that straight off, nor was it Molly. Someone new, then. She pushed the door open with her shoulder, facing away from Sherlock to begin with as she struggled with a large wicker basket. As she turned, he could see that the basket was, in fact, balanced precariously on top of her very large, pregnant belly. By the looks of it, she was expecting twins any day.

"Would you like help with that?"

The basket fell to the floor as the woman spun around in surprise, spilling its contents of several bunches of flowers and at least half a dozen get well cards. For a moment the two of them stood stock-still, staring at each other, Mary's eyes widening in horror as she took in the man standing in front of her. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Is everything alright? I was just leaving, if you want some-"

"It's you." The woman took a step backwards, away from him. The gifts lay forgotten at her feet as she continued to gape.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He stepped over to her carefully and bent down, beginning to pack the items back into their basket. The strange woman watched him coldly, her eyes now flicking between the detective and John. When Sherlock straightened up again, he silently placed the replenished hamper next to the bed and turned back to her.

He frowned at the disgusted expression on her face, slightly taken aback at the hatred behind it. "Have we met?"

"No." Her voice was clipped, angry. Sherlock's frown deepened, his gaze travelling over her body as he scrutinized her, trying to deduce why this woman would dislike him so intensely.

_Mid-thirties, in some sort of medical profession. Veterinary, by the looks of it, from those scratches, but out of work for a while due to pregnancy, obviously. Engagement ring, fairly new. Bought less than a month ago, I should expect, but it's been played with an awful lot. From stress? Partner's probably away for a while or, more likely, unwell-_

"Oh. Interesting."

The woman glared. "What's interesting? If you've just done that freaky deduction thing like he says you do, I really don't appreciate-"

"What's your name?"

She shut her mouth with a snap and eyed him guardedly before answering. "Mary."

"Mary." Sherlock repeated her name quietly. "Mary what?"

"Morstan."

There was a pause while Sherlock took in this new information. Mary continued to scowl from the doorway, looking alarmingly close to hitting something or someone. After a few seconds she began to fidget, clearly uncomfortable, and spoke again.

"Look, I don't know how or why you're here. For all I know this is all a ridiculous dream, but whatever the case you're not welcome back. Not now, not ever." Her voice was lowered to a hiss, her eyes narrowing menacingly. Sherlock blinked.

"Is that right?" He twirled the keys to the flat in his hand absently, but Mary's focus remained fixed on his face, unperturbed. "I merely came to visit John."

"So it takes a bullet to make you return to him, does it?!" She shrieked suddenly, catching Sherlock off-guard. "In three years, Sherlock, did you not think to come back at any other time, to let him know you were well, or even just _alive? _He was broken, and he needed contact with you. But you didn't give it to him, did you? You were… You were selfish. His best friend, who he loved and respected, was dead. And he saw it happen, no less. The memory of you haunted him every single _bloody_ day, and it took a good year and a half to mend him even a little bit. Do you even understand how much pain he went through, at all? He thought it was his fault, too, no matter how hard we tried to convince him otherwise. It was harrowing, honestly. And now you're just going to waltz back in here after three years, completely alive and expect to be welcomed back?!" Mary gave a harsh, cold laugh. "Good luck with that."

Sherlock's eyebrows flew up into his forehead. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but his mind refused to form any coherent words, and so he closed it again gently and instead attempted to swallow down the suffocating lump that had settled itself in his throat. He ran a hand through his dark curls slowly.

"So you and John are still living…"

"At Baker Street, yes. He refuses to leave because it reminds him of you. I keep telling him it's not good for him, that it would be far better to put everything related to you as far away from him as possible. He eventually saw it my way, though, and we're moving after the wedding."

_Ah. _"Well that's a shame. I was rather hoping I would be able to stay there." Mary's answering glower was all he needed as a reply. He'd have to get Mycroft to arrange him some other accommodation, then.

"Just leave. And don't you dare show your face here again, especially once John's recovered. We want to be a proper, ordinary couple. We want to get married and buy a nice house and raise a family, Mr Holmes, and you will only get in the way of that._"_

After speaking these words, Mary moved aside, gesturing for Sherlock to leave the room. Numbly, he obliged.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly was just about to slip into a deliciously warm bubble bath when her phone rang. She glanced sorrowfully down into the waiting bathtub, willing the noise from the next room to stop so she would be able to relax and forget the stressful events of that day's work. But the caller was persistent, and so, sighing, the pathologist wrapped herself in her dressing gown and shuffled through to answer it.

"Hello?"

"He's alive." From the other end of the line, Mary sounded shaken.

Molly felt her pulse quicken. _No. No, she couldn't possibly mean- _She dropped into her armchair silently and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Molly? Molly, are you there? He's back. Sherlock Holmes. I just saw him, he's-"

The rest of Mary's sentence was cut off as Molly hung up, letting her hand swing back down to her side and her phone fall heavily onto the soft carpet. Of course she'd known; she'd always known, for the past three years, that Sherlock hadn't really died that day. The secret had been so hard to keep that some days it had physically pained her. Particularly when comforting John during his long period of mourning, she found it a struggle to suppress the urge to spill everything to him; to reassure him that it was all going to be okay, that Sherlock would come home soon. But as the years went on, she found even herself believing this less and less, until the day came when she finally accepted that he was gone forever. But now…

Molly's thoughts were brought back into focus by a sharp tap at her front door. She jumped up from the chair defensively, wrapping her dressing gown tighter around herself. There was a short silence while she eyed up the door, before a familiar voice from the other side spoke softly.

"Open the door, Molly, I know you're in."

xXx

"So… Where have you actually been staying?" Molly placed a cup of tea gently on the coffee table in front on Sherlock and sat down opposite him. It felt ridiculous, making small talk over tea. For the last few years she had had plenty of chances to ponder on what she would actually say to Sherlock on his return, but somehow now that he was sitting across from her, none of it seemed appropriate. She took an awkward sip from her own mug and shuffled in her seat.

"Mycroft lent me one of his private houses in France." He replied.

"Ah. How… Nice of him."

"It wasn't as inconspicuous as I would have hoped, but it was good enough."

Molly made a small noise of agreement, and for a few minutes afterwards they drank their tea in silence, neither one entirely sure what the next logical step in the conversation was supposed to be. As the silence was just beginning to stretch into the realm of slightly uncomfortable, Molly leant forwards towards Sherlock and narrowed her eyes.

"Why have you come back now, of all times?"

Although the question was abrupt, the detective managed to maintain a completely passive expression, save from raising one, long eyebrow. He put his fingertips together under his chin thoughtfully, in the pose that Molly still remembered him pulling, although it had been so long. She bit her lip to stop herself smiling, the familiarity of the situation suddenly strangely amusing her.

Sherlock pretended not to notice this as he chose his answer carefully. "I'm not sure, Molly. I've wanted to return every single day since I left, believe me. I just thought… The third anniversary seemed like a suitable time. It felt _right_ for me to come back now, somehow. And…" he blew a heavy breath out and closed his eyes as if pained, "… I want to be here for John. In case he… Doesn't make it."

Molly nodded understandingly. She rested a comforting hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"John's going to be just fine." She assured him, hoping she sounded in the least bit convincing. "Just fine. I promise."

Sherlock bowed his head and shook it minutely. Molly could tell he wanted to change the subject.

"So why did you come _here_?"

"I'm not allowed back into the flat at Baker Street, and I knew you'd be here to let me in." He said, and Molly raised her eyebrows dubiously, but stayed quiet. Sherlock took this as confirmation and pushed himself up off the sofa.

"I'll sleep on the couch." He announced. Molly nodded absently and watched him as he strode across the room and out into the corridor, flung open the bathroom door and peered inside. "I'm going to spend the evening out anyway, so I won't bother you much. Save some of whatever you eat, I might not be back until late. I'll reheat whatever." He shut the door and moved to the kitchen, randomly examining the contents of the cupboards and fridge while Molly looked on in mute shock. After a while, when it seemed like Sherlock would go on to inspect the entire house if he wasn't stopped, she meekly cleared her throat.

"Sherlock, listen. It's… Lovely that you're here. I mean, I don't mind at all, it's just…"

"I won't be here long, Molly, if that's what you're concerned about. One or two days, possibly a week if my plan doesn't go as smoothly as I hope it will."

Molly furrowed her brow dubiously, but the detective flashed her a comforting- or what she supposed he _thought_ was a comforting- smile. She sighed.

"Well then, I suppose-"

"Great." Sherlock bounded back to her and placed a grateful kiss on her forehead. Molly felt herself blush immediately and she ducked her face down to avoid him noticing. He smirked to himself, before grabbing his coat from where it hung on a hook by the front door and shrugging it on.

"See you later, then. Don't wait up." He called, fumbling to tie his scarf as he slipped out of the apartment and out of sight.

"Wait, where are you going?" Molly shouted hoarsely after him, but the now undisturbed silence of the corridor outside signified that he was already out of earshot. She continued to stare for a few moments, wide-eyed, at the spot where he had been standing moments before, absently running her finger around the lip of her mug. She then shook her head minutely, turned away and began to busy herself with clearing away the mess and setting out blankets on the couch for Sherlock's inevitable stay, muttering to herself all the while about how little the man had changed. And how much she never wanted him to.

xXx

Sherlock had located the right window easily enough. On his previous visit to St Bart's he had made sure to note exactly where John's room was, and he was fairly certain he was right. To be honest, when was he ever wrong? He glanced with agitation from the window to his watch and back again, noting with a sense of relief that the window itself was slightly ajar, giving him a partial view into the suite from where he stood at the back of the building. He checked his watch again, his eyes following the second hand as it moved steadily around the face.

_Come on, come on…_

The faint sound of church bells tolled the hour, almost immediately followed by a series of muffled clicks and creaks as lights were flicked out and patients were ushered into beds. What little light there had been to the small patch of rough grass Sherlock was standing on was extinguished, drawing a relieved sigh from his throat. Visiting hours were over. Excellent.

His eyes skimmed smoothly over the vast, grey brick wall, swiftly locating the almost camouflaged drainpipe that snaked up past John's window. He spun around, checking the immediate area was free of onlookers before hoisting himself up the pipe and slipping subtly inside the darkened hospital room.

John looked exactly the same as before, although Sherlock hadn't expected much else. His sleeping face was illuminated dully by a faint greenish light from one of the machines that surrounded his bed, and it emphasised the sickly hue to his skin. Sherlock stepped carefully into the room, stopping every few seconds to listen for anyone coming. But every time there was only dead silence, and so he reached John's bedside undetected. He took a seat next to the bed and pressed his fingertips under his chin, assuming his favourite thinking pose.

"Hello again John." He croaked out, forcing his normally loud voice to be as quiet as was physically possible. "I'm not allowed to come and visit you during normal times anymore, so I guess this will just have to do."

There was nothing left for him to tell John, not after the last visit, but merely sitting silently and watching over him as he slept brought a welcome sense of peacefulness to Sherlock. He bowed his head, ears twitching as they tuned into the sounds of the room- the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor, the soft sloshing of the drip as a draught from the open window caught it, the whirring of various complicated machines treating and monitoring and keeping track.

After an undefinable amount of time, Sherlock looked back up and back to John's face. His gaze travelled slowly down to where the soldier's chest was rising and falling steadily, one hand drooped limply across it. Sherlock shut his eyes and breathed out deeply.

"Please come back to me, John." He murmured, before unfolding himself from the chair and turning to leave. Then, as he was just reaching out to pull himself through his makeshift doorway, a new sound in the room left him paralysed where he stood. He tensed as what sounded distinctly like bed sheets rustled behind him, and then the room was once again silent. He relaxed, but didn't turn around. It was most likely an outside noise- perhaps caused by the wind or a passing patient in the corridor. Sherlock shook his head and continued towards the window. Then John's heart rate monitor went wild.

Sherlock whipped around, his eyes darting between the screen on which John's heartbeat was being erratically graphed and the door. After a few moments, upon realising that nobody was going to come running to John's bedside quite yet, the consulting detective swept over to him and knelt by his face. The beeping of John's heartbeats was definitely coming more frequently now, and Sherlock almost held his breath as he examined his sleeping friend's face carefully. It was still as peaceful as ever. Still as dead-looking. He eyed the machine with disgust.

"Why is nothing happening?" He hissed at it. It whirred softly in response, but the thin green line continued spiking up and down at the same speed. "Please tell me this is a good thing. Please."

John's eyelids fluttered minutely, but it was enough for Sherlock to notice. He gripped John by the shoulders and began to gently shake him.

"John? John, can you hear me? Come on, I know you're there."

His heart had picked up to beat in-sync with the rhythm of John's, and he wondered if he would hyperventilate and pass out before John woke up, but he carried on repeatedly whispering John's name regardless. He was sure this was it; that his John was going to be alright. The sounds of the machinery in the room were blurring together, Sherlock's usually hyper-sensitive senses now clouded by the very real possibility that he was going to be able to speak to John again. But even through the giddiness, he could still make out the pips signalling the beats of John's heart begin to slow back down again.

"No, no, no, no."

"Sh-Sherlock?"

The voice was weak, but unmistakeably John's. Sherlock hadn't realised that he'd shut his eyes until they snapped back open again, to reveal John's weary blue eyes staring with confusion at him from a few inches away.

"Am I-?" John swept his gaze once over Sherlock, as if for confirmation, and fell back into his pillow, closing his eyes again. Sherlock watched him, suddenly too numb to move, to speak, to do anything. "Oh Jesus. I'm dead, aren't I? I died."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You're not dead." He managed. John shot him a withering look.

"But you're here, Sherlock, and you're dead. Meaning I must also be dead." He paused to sigh deeply, fixing his gaze on the white panelled ceiling above his head. "I have to say, I thought once I was gone I'd at least be refreshed, but I just feel awful." To prove his point, he raised a shaking hand to prod at the bloody bandages around his head and winced.

"John. You're not dead." Sherlock repeated. "And I'm not dead either."

John frowned and shook his head.

"I watched you die."

Sherlock began to protest, but was cut off as John abruptly pushed himself up on his elbows, eyes flying wide with panic.

"Oh god. Mary. The twins. Are they okay? I- I didn't get to see them. I have to-" He attempted to stand, but swayed dangerously on his feet as he was overcome with dizziness. Sherlock caught him under the arms as he collapsed and helped him back onto the thin hospital bed.

"It's okay, John." Sherlock murmured, "Everything's okay."

"But-"

"I know you have questions. I'll explain when you're out of here."

Sherlock moved away from the side of John's bed, despite the feeble protests from the patient, and raised his hand to hover over the emergency help button on the wall nearby. He smiled at John with what he hoped looked like genuine warmth. It was times like these when he wished he was slightly better with emotions.

"It's good to have you back, John. I was lost without my blogger." He smirked as he mimicked his own words, noting with pleasure that John returned a weak smile. "I mean it." And then Sherlock pressed the alarm, and within seconds had climbed out of the still-open window, mere moments before a team of ecstatic doctors burst into the suite.


End file.
